


A Night and a Day

by emmaliza



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:56:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Joly hesitates. "I... please." Combeferre turns to look at him, and Joly forces himself to smile. "I'm frightened, and it's not a pleasant sensation. I want to spend as little time as possible being frightened before we die."</i>
</p>
<p>Combeferre is not in love. Except for when he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night and a Day

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt: "combeferre/joly, h/c and comfort sex." Got angstier than I meant it to, but what can you do?

Combeferre is not in love. His feelings do not go so deep; he is not consumed with the other man. He knows perfectly well he can survive on his own. Often he will not think of Joly, or only do so fleetingly, for days on end. This is not a passion for him.

And yet, his feelings are more than lust. Joly's body holds some appeal for him, true, but more than that: Combeferre is drawn to his expressions, always just a little coloured with worry. He is drawn to the way Joly's consonants transform to accommodate his permanent cold. He is drawn to when Joly rubs the bridge of his nose with his cane too fiercely, leaving a red mark. He is drawn to the fact Joly carries a cane despite not needing one. Combeferre may not be in love, but he loves certain things.

Still, Joly already has a lover ‒ truth be told he has two, though whether he and Bossuet consider themselves as such, he's not sure. Combeferre accepts it. If that relationship is as open as it seems he could probably edge his way into it: but he has no interest in Musichetta or Bossuet, and so it would be unfair to force himself upon them. Combeferre is quite satisfied to observe, to see Joly chuckle in merriment or start to panic when Grantaire informs him about the sorts of places their wine is procured from. Combeferre's not entirely sure what else he wants.

At the barricades Joly ends up sitting with him by accident; Combeferre sees no need to panic and move away. Joly's back is tensed with anxiety as he pours over a note he brought with him, perhaps from Musichetta, and Combeferre runs a hand over his spine to soothe and comfort him. It is something he would do for any friend, but as Joly begins to relax under his touch, Combeferre does wonder what it would be like to stroke and grasp him for other reasons. To see Joly dissolve not into relaxation, but into ecstasy.

Songs are sung and wine is shared and Combeferre realises he will never know.

Or so he believes; as night falls and they try and rest before the final battle (for what little good it will do them), Joly's head falls on Combeferre's shoulder, and his arm falls over his stomach. Combeferre indulges himself then, lets himself pretend that Joly is not simply turning to the nearest body for comfort and warmth, but has specifically chosen to embrace him. The thought brings a smile to his face.

Combeferre cannot sleep and Joly is not sleeping well. "Combeferre," he whispers against his neck in one of his waking periods. "Are you frightened?"

"Very."

"Me too." A pause. Then, Combeferre feels soft kisses press against the skin of his neck. He takes in a breath. He has thought of this before, though he has never quite imagined these circumstances.

"What are you doing?"

Joly hesitates. "I... please." Combeferre turns to look at him, and Joly forces himself to smile. "I'm frightened, and it's not a pleasant sensation. I want to spend as little time as possible being frightened before we die."

Perhaps it's the simplicity of that statement ‒ that they are going to die ‒ that convinces him. Combeferre moves one hand to cup Joly's chin, and pulls him in for a kiss.

It is not fire. It is not wonder. It is not enlightenment. It is simply a kiss. But it is a nice kiss, soft and sweet, and it is something Combeferre would rather like to do again. It is something Combeferre will never be able to do again. So he takes advantage of the opportunity, parting Joly's lips with his tongue, tasting his mouth and letting their lips smack together audibly.

When he pulls back for air, a thought comes to him. "Bossuet."

From the way Joly flinches, there is no need to elaborate. "I can't tell him," Joly says. "If he knows how scared I am, he'll try and be scared for me. And that's not fair. If we're about to die, he should spend what time we have left being scared for himself."

Combeferre smiles and kisses Joly again, deep and reassuring and understanding, as if making a promise that he won't take this personally. Before long Joly rolls on top of him and Combeferre lets him use him. They make love while a wooden beam digs into Combeferre's back. They are quiet and do not stir a single soul; Combeferre opens both their trousers to wrap a hand around both their cocks, and Joly only gives a whimper, before their sounds return to nothing more than heavy breathing. Courfeyrac is still guarding dilligently, but facing away and pretending he sees nothing ‒ or perhaps he really hasn't noticed, but knowing Courfeyrac the way he does, Combeferre finds that unlikely.

Joly bucks into his grip and in the moonlight, Combeferre examines him. Perhaps he has never thought this before, perhaps it's the spectre of sex and death talking, but with his hair askew and lips parted, Joly is the most beautiful creature ever to live. Combeferre bites his lip to repress a noise, and Joly bucks as he quickens his pace. Perhaps the furniture beneath them starts to squeak a little, but their friends are too exhausted to be awoken. Joly leans back as he approaches the edge, and Combeferre almost wants to bring him back down for another kiss. But he decides against it.

"Oh god," Joly squeaks and comes in Combeferre's hand. It is the heat that makes him follow suit, and the thought that right now he is sharing some part of this man's body; he says nothing, but groans something which may sound suspiciously like Joly's name.

After, Joly does them both back up, and lays down against Combeferre's chest to sleep. He is much more settled now, almost angelic ‒ and Combeferre breaks his promise a little. He looks up to see Courfeyrac at the top of the barricade, smiling at him. He does not return it.

Morning comes and the fight resumes. Combeferre has to keep Courfeyrac from falling apart when Gavroche is killed (while trying not to fall apart himself because _Oh God, he's a child, that's not right, that's not **fair** ‒_). Hell breaks loose and Combeferre acts only on instinct, trying to protect Jehan, pleading with the residents of the houses around them for mercy. There is no time to be angry at betrayal.

It comes to himself, Enjolras, Courfeyrac as Joly in an upstairs room of the Cafe Musain. Perhaps he has fantasised about taking Joly upstairs in this building before. They have already seen Bossuet shot, and the grief that stings is a vague thing, difficult to find beneath the all-consuming panic.

Combeferre puts a hand across Joly, as if he can somehow protect him from bullets like that. Joly grabs his shoulder in comfort. Combeferre realises he is being selfish, taking his place as the last thing Joly ever feels, ever touches, when he really has no right to it. But there's no time to pull away before gunshots come through the floor.

Combeferre was not in love. Except for a night and a day, he was.


End file.
